


My bones will shake and I can't do this any more

by aphrodite_mine



Category: Orphan Black (TV)
Genre: Blood, F/F, Nightmares, One-Sided Attraction, POV Second Person, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 11:04:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2267355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphrodite_mine/pseuds/aphrodite_mine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even like this, even angry, and sick, and <i>fucked</i>, Cosima is beautiful.</p>
            </blockquote>





	My bones will shake and I can't do this any more

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cosima_geekmonkey_niehaus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosima_geekmonkey_niehaus/gifts).



> Written for cosima-geekmonkey-niehaus who is awesome and who won my giveaway! She asked for one-sided punky monkey with angst. Hope this fits the bill!

It's fucking Rachel Duncan, red-eyed and weeping blood, hands outstretched and gnarled, like ancient trees, or claws. _I have her_ , she says, purrs, growls, snaps, and her hands are on you, wrapping, squeezing, until you feel your chest get tight with panic. You try to shake her -- she can't be stronger than you are, and you know she isn't. You're the same, but Rachel is a sick fuck. You're a sick fuck. You're the same, you two. You shake and kick and rip your arm free with a grunt and a yelp -- 

"What the _fuck_?" 

You're awake, painfully so, shaken from the void into the light from the window overhead hitting your eyes and making you wince. Instead of a bachelor pad, Fee's loft smells like a hospital, and even the light is pristine, slicing you like daggers. 

It feels like you haven't slept at all, though you know you must have. 

A drop of something hot hits your forehead and you realize, first: Cosima (still in bed next to you, still curling beside you every night like some habit the two of you simply forgot to break. You've never talked about it, but it feels good. Having some fucked up version of someone to come home to) and, Cosima with a shaky hand pressed to her nose. 

"You hit me, Sarah." She's slid away from you where normally she would still be curled close. Something like seeking warmth, safety in numbers. The sisterhood that was robbed from them. She misses Delphine, probably. Another thing you don't talk about. "What, I repeat, the fuck?" 

Shit. Shit, shit _shit_. This is bad. You're suddenly awake completely, awareness running through you like a lightning rod. "Shit, Cos. I was dreaming, and--" 

She's waving you off, rings on her fingers glinting in the sunlight, shaking her head and wincing at the droplets of blood that escape between her fingers. "Just get me a towel or something?" Her glasses are somewhere on the bedside table previously reserved for whatever contraband Felix had brought to bed the night before (he's graciously given up his bed for in favor of the couch, which he reminds you all too frequently is lumpy and hellish on his back) and your t-shirt is sliding off her shoulder. 

Even like this, even angry, and sick, and _fucked_ , Cosima is beautiful.

The secret has been shimmering beneath your skin for a week now, a sickness that threatens to eat your heart and your gut. _Shut up_ you tell it. At best love is inconvenient, a trick to be played on some gullible victim. This is no inconvenience. This is criminal. You scramble from bed, trying not to notice that her eyes don't follow you. "Here." You grab blindly at a pile of laundry, hoping you haven't chosen too foul or irreplaceable.

Kneeling on the bed, you extend your hand expecting to hold the wound yourself, but Cosima snatches the cloth from you with an roll of her eyes. "Hope it was _some_ dream," she mumbles, now behind a bunched-up shirt. 

Your arm drops, empty. You know what to do with love, you know how to stuff it away, stuff it down until it suffocates and dies. You know the taste of ash and smoke after a doused flame. Your bones have been carved with it.

Cosima's eyes are shut, her expression shuttered. The world seems to slow down as you sit on the bed and know, _know_ that you can never snuff Cosima out. Just as slow, the shirt begins to seep with red, and you open your mouth to tell her but Cosima is first, feeling the heat and starting with fear. "Fuck," she whispers. "Uh, Fee doesn't happen to have a extra wardrobe somewhere for me to bleed into?" It's a joke -- her cheeks and her eyes move in a smile, but she isn't smiling. Cosima is wearing a face reserved for funerals. 

"Blood's practically a fashion accessory, right?" You jibe, knowing your face looks just like hers. "Here." You un-freeze, catching the back of Cosima's neck with one hand, letting her lean back. Her dreads flop, one by one, against your skin. Her body is warm, easy, and her eyes soften when you ease her grip on the fabric to replace it with your own. Your thumb moves along her spine, you can't seem to stop it. "It was Rachel."

She stiffens. "What?"

"In my dream." You flash your teeth, another approximation of a smile. You can practically taste the copper, Cosima's blood starting to pool where your fingers press into the shirt. It is no longer throbbing, though. You take that for a good sign, as good as they'll come, now. 

This is a development, one you don't want to think about, can't think about. From what you understand about the sickness, this shouldn't be happening. Which means Cosima is getting worse. No. She's fine, she's bloody great -- bloody. _Fuck._

"So you were protecting me?" Cosima grins, wolfish, blood having settled between her teeth. You ignore -- try to ignore -- how pale she is.

"Did a shite job, didn't I?" 

It's a half-assed apology, for hitting her, for coming in to her life, for being a bloody clone, for being leverage. Because for everything that isn't your fault, isn't your _goddamn_ fault, something is, something twisted and twisting and taking hold. You want to kiss her carmine mouth, but press your lips to her forehead instead. 

"You did okay," Cosima says, softly. She closes her eyes and exhales, suddenly weak with it all. When she breathes in again it comes shaky. You want to punch the wall, but all that ever did was give you bloody knuckles. "This isn't a great development, huh."

"Doesn't take a damn scientist to figure that out, Cosima."

"Sarah," she coo's, lifting her hand to touch your face -- her face. You'd kiss her like this, kiss her red and bleeding. Maybe she'd lace her fingers together behind your neck, pulling you closer. You think about it and your hand slips, sending a fresh wave down her face. "Shit," she says. "Shit."


End file.
